


One More Letter

by popfly



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-09 02:49:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popfly/pseuds/popfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry gets a new tattoo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One More Letter

**Author's Note:**

> Extra special thanks to [fr333bird](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Fr333bird/pseuds/Fr333bird) and [accordingtomel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/accordingtomel/pseuds/accordingtomel) for beta reading, even though we'd never really spoken before at all. I really appreciate it.

“Hey.” Louis stands just inside the room, one hand on the edge of the door, holding it slightly open. He looks uncertain, like he doesn’t know if he should come all the way into Harry’s room, like Harry doesn’t pass him the second key card to every hotel room in every city, slipping it into Louis’ pocket when no one’s looking.

Harry barely glances up from his laptop, one knuckle pressing his lip between his teeth. “Hey,” he mumbles back, hunching over his crossed legs and typing another line into his email. He’s been writing his mum more lately, silly stories about fans and learning to play golf and the weather; emails that don’t say much of anything but still somehow convey exactly what Harry’s feeling because she’s his mum and she’s always been able to read between the lines.

Louis can too, knows more about Harry’s silences than anyone. He always knows when Harry needs space or a joke or a cuddle or more, pressing him up against walls and bruising his hips after shows, or running his fingers through Harry’s hair over and over to soothe him after awkward interviews. He looks unsure now, though, swinging the door back and forth, back and forth, and shuffling his feet.

Harry lowers the screen of his laptop and rolls his shoulders back, feeling his spine pop. “Come in, you’re making me antsy.”

Louis lets the door click shut but doesn’t come any closer. His eyes skip around the room, flicking to and away from Harry’s, and Harry knows he shouldn’t be angry at Louis, shouldn’t be angry at all. It’s a shitty week, sure, but not because of Louis, not even because of _her_ , it’s just a side effect of the situation, but Harry’s had to sleep alone for more nights in a row than he has in a long time, and he’s fucking cranky.

“D’you need something? Niall’s got the booze and Liam’s got the chocolate, I doubt I have anything you need in here.” Harry knows it sounds mean, his tone harsh, but he’s too tired to really care.

“Just wanted to see how you are.” Louis rolls his eyes before the sentence is even out of his mouth, and Harry almost smirks but catches himself in time. “Look, Haz, it’s only a few more days. I don’t like it any more than you do -”

“Yeah, but you’ve got someone to keep you company, haven’t you.” It’s not a question. Harry knows Louis doesn’t love Eleanor, not like that. Still, even if you're being _forced_ to share your life with someone you’re sharing your life with that someone, and for the last week that someone hasn’t been Harry. That’s the part that bugs him the most, honestly. He misses just sharing space with Louis.

“You know it’s not the same.”

“I do.” Harry can’t keep it up, lets more sadness creep into his voice. “And you know it doesn’t matter. I miss you.”

“I know.” Louis comes a few steps closer, his hands jammed in his hoodie pockets. “I miss you too.”

Harry shrugs, suddenly desperately tired, and stretches his legs out on top of the duvet. He closes his eyes briefly, barely longer than a blink, and he feels the mattress dip.

Louis’ hair brushes against his side, tickling over his ribs, and Harry doesn’t want to but he lifts his arm almost reflexively, letting Louis settle against him, burrow close.

“You shouldn’t do this. Spend too long in here and someone’ll be knocking.” Harry tries for a grumble, but it’s too soft. He tucks his hands behind his head so he doesn’t reach down and stroke Louis’ back, or his hair, or his arm where it’s bent on Harry’s chest.

“I know. I won’t. Just a minute. I just want to talk to you for a while. Tell me a joke, something really lame.”

Harry huffs at that, shaking his head.

“C’mon, Haz. One little pun?”

“Don’t feel very punny.”

Louis lifts his head and grins, his chin digging into Harry’s shoulder. “So close.”

They stay like that for a moment, long enough for Harry to feel his blood start to heat. Louis drops his eyes and then pulls back, his hand skimming up from Harry’s chest to his armpit and then down his arm, fingertips tracing over his tattoos.

“Till we surrender,” Louis says, so quietly Harry can barely hear him. He opens his mouth to say something, he wants to make a joke but can’t think of a single one. Louis’ hand is groping towards the nightstand, the pile of stuff Harry empties out of his pockets at the end of each day, and comes back with a Sharpie.

He uncaps it with his mouth and props himself up on his elbows, holding Harry’s shoulder down with one hand and making a few precise strokes, the felt tip of the marker tickling Harry’s skin. Harry’s expecting something silly, like the cross or the “L” in his palm, and doesn’t understand when he cranes his neck and sees “Hi” just above his star.

“Hi to you, too,” he says, watching Louis carefully recap the marker and place it back on the nightstand. Louis looks down at the letters he’s just written and his mouth goes tight, his eyes serious.

“Why hi?” Harry asks, the look on Louis’ face making his heart beat oddly in his chest.

“It’s not finished.” Louis’ mouth brushes over the word as he talks, almost a kiss, and then he pushes up from the mattress so fast it startles Harry. He’s off the bed and walking backwards towards the door. “It’s the start of a conversation, hi is. We can finish it later.” He reaches behind him for the door handle, his face splitting into one of his manic grins, the ones that come out of nowhere and usually mean trouble. “Don’t surrender yet, Styles, unless you’re surrendering to sleep. You could use it.”

He’s out the door before Harry can decide how to respond.

Harry washes very carefully the next day, and the look on Louis’ face when Harry raises his hand in an interview and the “Hi” flashes out from his shirt sleeve is so good, surprised and pleased and adoring, that Harry wants to see how long he can keep the marker there. He feels better that day than he has all week, joking with the fans at the meet and greet, tossing bits of liquorice into Niall’s mouth on the tour bus, rescuing Zayn from one of Liam’s headlocks during soundcheck.

The gig goes really well, the crowd is nuts for them, they can barely hear each other in their ear pieces during the Twitter questions and he swore the stage shook when they took their bows after “I Want”. Harry’s jacked on adrenaline, buzzing hard, his skin feeling too tight and his cheeks hurting from laughing. He hooks an arm around Louis’ neck in the dressing room and presses his nose to Louis’ damp face, feeling Louis’ eyes crinkle as he grins.

As they’re led out, the rest of the group heading back to the hotel meets up with them, and security nudges Louis towards Eleanor so they can walk out together, let the fans see them. Harry feels his muscles seize up, Zayn bumps into his back and laughs at him, “walk much, Haz”, looping his arm through Harry’s and dragging him along.

Harry shares a lift with Liam and Niall and the band, ducking in at the last second even though the couple of security guys probably put them over the occupancy limit, and fumbles with his key card before getting the door unlocked. He drops his clothes on the floor one piece at a time as he rushes towards the bathroom, and scrubs his arm so hard in the shower that he almost breaks the skin.

He lays in bed until the ache in his arm goes away, and then he gets up to scrub again. In the morning the “Hi” is gone, and he feels like absolute shit.

Louis’ face when he notices the faintly pink but unmarked skin gives Harry a sick sense of satisfaction, and he holds Louis’ gaze until Louis looks away, lips pressed together, and goes back to flipping channels on the bus TV.

Things are tense until Eleanor flies home, and even her leaving doesn’t solve anything. Only a few more shows and then they’re back in the UK, and lord knows what Louis will have to do while they’re there. There’s been talk of them getting their own places, and the thought makes Harry sick to his stomach. He’s keyed up and confused and frustrated, but he misses Louis more than anything, so when the door to his hotel room opens that night he doesn’t say a word. He just lifts the covers on the bed and lets Louis crawl in, lets him bite marks over his hipbones and up his sides, lets him hold Harry’s wrists above his head while he sucks a bruise on his collar bone, lets him dig his nails into Harry’s shoulders while they kiss, open mouthed and a little desperate.

Louis is straddling him, shuffling forward on his knees, pressing his cock towards Harry’s open mouth, when his eyes flick down to Harry’s arm. He backs up, bending sideways to get Harry’s Sharpie off the nightstand, and yanks the cap off.

“Don’t wash it off this time,” he commands, leaning over and re-writing “Hi” in the exact same place above the star, re-capping the Sharpie and dropping it off the side of the bed. “Don’t ever wash it off. Okay? I want that there forever.”

Harry just nods, can’t find his breath when Louis is giving him orders in that lust-rough voice, his fingertips pressing just this side of too tight around his biceps. Louis smirks and shuffles back up Harry’s body, sliding his cock into Harry’s waiting mouth.

When Harry announces he’d rather go golfing than to the theme park, he’s met with cries of disbelief. Liam seems personally insulted, and Harry assures him that it’s not because he hates theme parks (though he’s not overly fond of roller coasters), he just doesn’t want to handle crowds on his day off. Louis doesn’t look convinced, but Harry lets him make fun of his outfit without any rebuttals, and that seems to make up for it enough that they all pile out to the bus cheerfully, shoving each other and smiling wide for the always waiting fans.

Harry waves them off and then fills his assigned security detail in on his plan for a detour.

Louis comes back from the theme park smelling like chlorine and fresh air, his nose slightly pink and his hair actually windswept instead of just being styled to look that way. He’s being playful, scooting away whenever Harry tries to get him out of his shirt. Harry goes for his knees, pinching above the kneecap where he knows Louis is ticklish, and Louis retaliates by digging his fingers into Harry’s armpits.

His fingernails scrape against Harry’s arm and Harry hisses, wincing. Louis yanks his hands away and looks immediately apologetic. “Sorry, sorry, got a bit carried away.” His cheeks are flushed and his hair is sticking up at the back and Harry couldn’t love him more if he tried.

“It’s okay, just a bit tender there.”

Louis’ eyes go wide and his hand shoots out for Harry’s shirt sleeve. “You haven’t been scrubbing again, have you, I told you - “ He gasps when he lifts Harry’s shirt and sees the “Hi” still there, slightly blacker with newly forming scabs and red around the edges. His eyes are so round, and Harry thinks they’ve never looked so blue. His nerves are jumping and he feels hot all over, and he hopes that Louis doesn’t think it was stupid, he’d said he wanted it there forever, but maybe he’d think Harry was silly for taking him literally.

“Harry. What did you do?” Louis is circling the tattoo with his finger, his breath sounding harsh in his throat. “When did you do it? You were golfing.”

Harry shrugs. “I went before. You said you wanted it there forever.”

“You know it isn’t finished,” Louis says, still staring at the tattoo, his touch on the sore skin making Harry shiver.

“Well, I figure this way the conversation is always just starting.”

Louis’ eyes snap to Harry’s then, and he lunges forward to crush their mouths together, sweeping his tongue out to lick into Harry’s mouth. He pulls back just enough so that when he speaks his lips still brush against Harry’s. “I meant the word wasn’t finished, Harry.”

Harry blinks up at Louis, confused.

“The word, not the conversation. This conversation won’t ever be over, not if I have anything to do with it. They can push every bird in England at me, but it doesn’t matter. I’m yours, Haz. And you’re mine.” Louis touches his mouth to Harry’s again, then moves away, eyes glinting. “I was just waiting for a more appropriate time to add the ‘s’.”

Louis’ smile is soft and a little crooked, the kind of smile that Harry knows is saved for him, for this.


End file.
